


Grace; Or, the Ineptitude of Angels

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Dean Has Powers, Gen, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:59:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wouldn’t expect it to hurt so much. Grace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grace; Or, the Ineptitude of Angels

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr follower appreciation prompt-fest, for [this prompt](http://lbmisscharlie.tumblr.com/post/60462160075/my-prompt-is-dean-suddenly-becomes-an-angel-has) for [fawkessong](http://fawkessong.tumblr.com/):
> 
>  
> 
> _Dean suddenly becomes an angel/has angelic powers and Cas tries to teach him how to use them._

He wouldn’t expect it to hurt so much. Grace. It thrums – pounds, really – through him like a note held too long on a bass guitar. Demanding, screaming, shoving against his bones and skin; cartilage and tendons; lacing whip-quick through his viscera. It _aches_ , deep to his sin-scarred soul.

(Not as bad as Hell, though. Never as bad as Hell.)

He wakes, or – comes to, or – opens his eyes. The ceiling above him is popcorned plaster and there’s a water stain in the corner shaped like Pamela Anderson. Well, certain parts of –

“Dean.”

Cas says his name with such worry, such raw, gravelly unease, that Dean wants to let his eyes flicker shut again, let someone else’s concern for his well-being wash over him. 

He doesn’t, though. He sits up, and – and falls forward, retching; weak, watery vomit stains the grimy carpet dark. 

“Hey, hey –” Sam’s hand at his shoulder, a presence more than a comfort. Dean’s eyes swim, and his head – _goddamn_ , his head – and his feet are bare against the carpet, which is just disgusting, even for him. He stands, feet shaky, shoving off Sam’s concerned grip at his elbow, and screws his eyes shut, then opens them again.

_Nope._

He sits back down. The bed is rumpled, unmade, the comforter slick, weightless acrylic that has turned tacky and damp in the humid air of where-ever-the-fuck, Illinois. 

“Fucking _hell_ , Cas,” he manages. His voice sounds foreign, raw, and distant from him. In what should be silences between words, he hears – so much – voices in tangled threads running through his mind.

“I – I apologize,” Cas says gravely, as though he’s not certain if that’s the correct course of action. Dean presses the balls of his hands to his eyes. “I didn’t realize it would be so –”

“It hurt like a sonofabitch,” Dean interrupts, to stop Cas’s uneasy voice. Dean can hear Cas thinking. Not in the usual Cas-is-posturing-so-obviously-it’s-loud way, but an actual stream in his mind. It’s tangled, confused, but Dean knows it’s Cas, knows it like he knows the weight of a gun in his hand. 

Cas breathes in, sharply, the air hissing between his teeth, like he’s realized something; Dean feels Cas’s hand fall heavily on his ankle, patting him awkwardly; yet, it comforts. 

“You’ll learn to control it,” Cas says, low. Dean shifts, opens his eyes enough to see Cas at the foot of the bed, face crumpled in concern. “I can – I will help, if you want –”

“Yeah, well,” Dean manages; his throat still aches, feeling scraped raw. “It’s your goddamn fault this happened, so you bet your ass you’re helping.”


End file.
